


drunk, drown, down

by janed



Category: Soulkeeper
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-02
Updated: 2004-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janed/pseuds/janed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drunk people do crazy things and Corey doesn't even know how this happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drunk, drown, down

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to livejournal.

He doesn't know how this happened.

He remembers being at the bar. He remembers downing beer after beer until even the over dramatic all-Spanish soap opera started making sense. He remembers trying to get up to go take a piss and thinking that the whole room was spinning and then falling flat on his face and he remembers T crawling down on the floor beside him and both of them just laughing so hard that Mac finally said he was cutting them off and calling them a cab. He remembers climbing into the cab on top of T, who still couldn't stop laughing, and thinking that T smelled really good and he even remembers saying so but this? He does not remember how this happened.

He shakes his head trying to clear it and thinks that it must have been somewhere between the cab ride and the smelling and the door to their apartment. He doesn't remember any strange fogs or any whirling, spinning falls into alternate universes, though, so... So. Hot.

His brain feels like it's wrapped in cotton and he's having a hard time processing. He wonders if this is what it's like to be someone's T-shirt. He also wonders when he went crazy but mostly he just wonders when T got so fucking _quick_ with his hands. He always knew he was -- he's watched T walk onto a bus with nothing and walk off two stops later with three wallets and a package of Chiclets -- but somehow... somehow even knowing that doesn't help. Because his hands just seem impossibly faster when Corey is this drunk and T is undoing his pants with one hand and awkwardly pushing his shirt up his chest with the other and then pushing the first hand into his underwear and... doing it all like getting his hands on Corey's skin -- on his dick -- is the ultimate answer to every question the universe has ever had.

42.

And what? They spend way too much time together, he thinks, because that should not be something he knows. He's not supposed to know that because he takes pride in the fact that he's never read a book that wasn't assigned to him. He takes pride in the fact that Mrs. Arnold was convinced for a full two years that he and his 'stumbling, skirt-chasing ignorance' were going to be the end of her. He takes pride in it because he hasn't got a choice because he has never been the smart one -- that's all T. T who knows everything and can answer anything and is sucking on his neck and humping against his hip like some kind of 15-year-old virgin. And Corey is pretty fucking sure that T isn't a virgin but at this point? Nothing would surprise him.

He pushes his head against the pillows and squeezes his eyes shut and T is mumbling things like 'oh, Jesus' and 'fuck, God' and 'Corey' and probably leaving him a monster-sized hickey between breaths and how does he know that Corey's always liked being marked? How does he know that Corey has always liked the burn and tingle of someone else's mouth on his skin and then the hot twist in his gut the next day when he sees the mark left behind and remembers exactly how it got there? Because they've never talked about it so T shouldn't be _allowed_ to know what turns him on but somehow he does anyway.

His fingers are tangled up in T's hair and he can't stop himself from pushing his hips up against the hand wrapped around his dick -- doesn't _want_ to stop himself because it feels good. Really good. So good it makes him gasp and he bites his lip when he hears it because he sounds like a _girl_ when he does that. But then T moans and bucks against him like he can't stop himself and Corey has to gasp again and, yeah, T definitely likes the gasping.

He pries his fingers out of T's hair and pushes his shoulders until he's sitting back on his knees -- watches him sway and have to catch himself and then look down at Corey with a half-grin and then away like he just remembered something important that he was supposed to be doing. Like jerking Corey off. And the angle is different and T has to twist his wrist around and when he does Corey feels his mouth drop open and hears the pathetic 'ah, oh' sound come out of his mouth. And it would be embarrassing if it didn't feel so good but it does feel so good and also so unfair at the same time because T is getting to do all the touching.

He fumbles against both T's 'not caring' and his own drunk-numb fingers until he's got T's shirt pulled over his head and off one arm and Corey's not going to fight him if he doesn't want to take it off all the way because if he can touch all that smooth, pale skin and get a handjob at the same time? It works for him. And he thanks god that, at least, is still normal -- that he still likes getting handjobs -- because everything else is definitely not normal right now.

Not normal at all and he thinks that if there was a word for how he feels right now it would be frantic or possibly delirious because he just can't stop touching and he just can't stop making these gasping, moaning noises and he has no idea what he's even _doing_ and he's too drunk to be suave and too out of his depth to be skilled and he doesn't even know why he's worried about it because it's not something he usually worries about in these types of situations but he really hopes that T isn't disappointed.

He doesn't think he is, though, unless of course he really did slip into an alternate universe and it's the one where it's always opposite day and T reaching down and yanking at the fastenings of his own jeans until he can shove his hand in and moan and reflexively tighten his other hand on Corey's dick before moving it even _faster_ actually means 'I'm bored, let's get tacos' or something.

He really hopes it doesn't mean tacos.

He's got one hand knotted up in the sheet under him and the other gripping T's shoulder and it's so easy to just slide his palm over the hot, sweaty skin until it rests on the back of T's neck and then pull him down until they're so close he can taste the alcohol on their breath and then just kiss him. Just push his tongue in his mouth and slide it against T's and it's easy and messy but it's good at the same time -- all teeth and tongue and too much spit -- and he can't quite remember why they've never kissed before. Especially not when T sucks on his tongue and he feels his spine turn to jelly and can't stop himself from digging his fingers into the back of T's neck and moaning into his mouth and just kissing him even harder.

The sheet isn't enough to hold his interest anymore and before he knows what he's doing he's wrapping his fingers around the hand T has on his dick and twisting his wrist just right and squeezing his eyes tight and turning his head away just enough to suck in air and moan. And the broken off groaning sob sound T makes has his hips bucking and he thinks that he could spend his whole life listening to that sound. He manages to pry his eyes open and T's staring down his body at their joined hands moving on his dick and T is biting his lip and pulling on his dick like he's got a gun to his head and then... then he makes that hitching, moaning whimper sound that Corey would know anywhere and this whole thing suddenly just became a religious experience.

For a second, the one part of his brain that's still functioning is thinking that something is seriously wrong with knowing exactly the sound that T makes when he's about to lose it but he's had many years of practice with repress and deny and he's fucking drunk as hell right now so he tells that part to just shut up and enjoy the show because he wouldn't have to be _listening_ to T jerk-off to _hear_ him jerk-off. Because the walls in this apartment are thin enough to hear dust settle two rooms away and T hasn't had a date in _months_ and he's heard it plenty of times but he's never actually seen it and now is not the time to be thinking about how wrong it is that he _wants_ to see it because T's gasping out something about Jesus and fucking and coming all over Corey's stomach.

And it takes a minute to start breathing again and he doesn't remember holding his breath but it must have been about the same time that he stopped moving his hand. He looks down at their twisted-up-together hands on his dick and he thinks that it would have been a better idea to put his hand on T's dick instead of his own. And he looks over at T who's still breathing hard and still staring at their hands on Corey's dick and then Corey is moving his hand -- both their hands -- only faster now because it finally dawned on him that watching their hands is what got T off.

It never even crossed his mind that T might like to watch but at the same time it makes a lot of sense, too. An insane kind of sense because there's nothing else for it to be but insane. Because they're best friends and they've been best friends since they were young enough that it was actually cool to say that they were best friends. And best friends don't give each other handjobs and get off on watching it.

But maybe he really did slip into taco-world and maybe that's what they do in taco-world and maybe that's why T is licking his own come off his hand because it's really weird but also the hottest thing that Corey has ever seen and, Jesus, does he do that all the time? And then the image of T jerking off and then licking his palm and sucking his fingers is in his head with full technicolor detail and Corey's back is arching off the bed and his eyes are squeezed shut and he's gasping like he's drowning and he could die right now and he would be fine with that.

But dying would be the easy way out and nothing is ever easy for him and he doesn't die. At least he thinks he doesn't because if he were dead he doesn't think that T would fall down beside him and smile sleepily and mumble something about 'always knew you would' and then pass out. And he doesn't think that if he were dead he would be left wide-awake and totally sober and confused out of his mind and trying to figure out how exactly this happened. Because he still doesn't know -- maybe he doesn't want to know -- but he's got at least four hours before T is sober enough to realize what just happened to figure it out.


End file.
